


The Wolf King of Mayak

by Fearful_little_thing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Contains Fanart, Cultural Misunderstandings, Fictional Country, Historical Inaccuracy, King!Derek, M/M, Sterek Glompfest 2018, Unhappy Ending, mentions of polygamy and polyamory, mentions of slavery (background), mild culture shock, possible unreliable narrator, questionable chronology, teacher!stiles, the political intrigue is dropped as soon as it starts, vaguely 1860s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fearful_little_thing/pseuds/Fearful_little_thing
Summary: Stiles leaps at the opportunity to teach the King of Mayak's children because he needs the money. He expects the job to be different than any position he's had before, expects the need to be respectful and guard his tongue - he even expects the culture shock (to a certain degree). However, he does not expect to show up and immediately have all of his assumptions turned on their heads. And he definitely doesn't expect the reaction he has to Derek H'Aighl, the Wolf King of Mayak.





	1. The Story - The Wolf King of Mayak

**Author's Note:**

> A day late and a dollar short, this is my work for the 2018 Sterek Glompfest as prompted by jennoasis. You asked for "Anna and the King, but Sterek" and this is what came of it. 
> 
> This story is set in the fictional country of Mayak, largely because I don't know enough about any actual countries 1860s England would have found 'exotic' and didn't want to risk it.

“Could you be happy with what you would have here?” Derek asked, his voice as soft as the fingertips against Stiles’ skin. “You would always share me. I could never be yours completely, I could never put you first, my duties would always come before you. Some weeks you would hardly ever see me, some weeks not at all –”

 

“I –” Stiles started to protest.

 

“Hush,” Derek’s fingers skated across his bottom lip. “It is expected that as ruler I have at least three heirs. Always three, in case of disaster. I have one, Stiles. Just one. Julia has given me my first heir, so I can be free to never set foot in her chambers again, but Braeden and Lydia are yet to fall pregnant. It’s my duty to ensure that the H’Aighl line continues.”

 

“I know,” Stiles whispered hotly, unable to speak any louder without fear of his voice cracking. “I _know_ that.”

 

“Could you live with that?” Derek continued sadly, cruelly voicing the truths they both knew but didn’t want to hear. “Could you know that the nights I didn’t come to bed were because I was with one of them? Could you look at me afterwards and not think about where I had been the night before? Could you tell yourself it doesn’t matter?”

 

Stiles bit his bottom lip, his face hot and his eyes starting to water as he realised the truth of it. Something he’d already known but refused to think about. They would never work. Stiles was a nobody, a foreigner with no name and no connections. Derek was a King. If they pursued the feelings between them it would never be more than this – a few hours stolen here and there at night, and Stiles being known as a meaningless plaything if they were ever seen together public.

 

They could never marry. Despite Mayak’s unusual attitude towards same-gender relationships, it was expected that if the King was going to marry a foreigner then he should marry to the advantage of his country. Derek would never be able to successfully argue that Stiles was a good political match, not when the majority of the West considered romantic love between men to be a sin.

 

Derek might care about him, might even love him, but Stiles would always come last – after his country, his responsibilities, and his duty to his wives.

 

And he couldn’t live like that.

 

Lips brushed against his cheek, then Derek drew back. When Stiles looked at him again he had his ruler’s face on again, the cool, distant façade he used to mask his feelings. “You are still my guest,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. “You are welcome here for as long as you wish to stay. Though should you wish to resign your position and return to England, I would understand and bear no grudge against it.”

 

Stiles swallowed. He swiped underneath his eyes quickly with the back of his wrist, taking the time he needed to compose himself. “I regretfully resign my position as teacher to your children,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of unshed tears. “It’s – it’s long past time… I should go home. My father is – I just – I should return to England and make sure he’s ok. He’s not as strong as he used to be.”

 

“I’ll have the necessary arrangements made,” Derek said, turning away from him with a sense of finality that broke his heart. “You will be missed,” the King added softly.

 

Stiles wanted to say something. He wanted to reach out, aching for the comfort of touch. Instead he forced himself to take a step back, and another, each step adding another crack through his heart until finally he turned away and it broke into pieces.

 

* * *

 

 

_Dearest father,_

_It’s barely been two months but I feel like I’ve been living here forever. I know my last letter was uncharacteristically short and probably made you worry that there were things I wasn’t saying in order to spare your concern. In truth it was my concern for you that made it difficult to write. How could I tell you about my experiences here in Mayak without feeling like I’d run away from our problems? I had thought my stay here would be difficult, that I would find myself amongst the savage people of the East and long for the civilisation of London. I’d imagined trying to teach a gaggle of small, spoiled children and having to step lightly to avoid offending their guards and nurses._

_I was wrong, father. So amazingly, incredibly wrong. Which made me feel amazingly, incredibly guilty. There I was surrounded by splendour, having conversations with fascinating people, eating exotic foods and making friends while you were back home in such a miserable position as I left you._

_Mayak is strange, it’s true, many of their customs far different from those I’m used to, but despite the differences I can’t help but feel at home here. I wish you were here. I would introduce you to my teaching assistant Isaac, who is simultaneously one of the sweetest and most sarcastic people I have ever met; I would introduce you to my young friend Scott, who was thrown in the deep end of Mayakan culture alongside me on my very first day._

_And, once away from official business and far from the throne room, I would introduce you to Derek H’Aighl. A rare man who is both a good king and a good person besides. It’s strange to say, but we have become friends, he and I. Though at first we rarely spoke, having little occasion or reason for being in the same room, now we often sit together in the late evenings over a game of chess and discuss whatever comes to mind. I had thought he was cold at first, even mean, but that is the face he must wear outside the privacy of the h’volkan dhar (the palace wing reserved for the King and his family). A King cannot give away what he feels, or show that he is anything but calm and collected. His reputation is the reputation of the country. The King of Mayak may look cold, but Derek is anything but._

_There is so much else I want to tell you, and even more that I wish I could show you… So, father, I have a proposition. In two more months I will have made enough to cover the majority of our debt. Sell the cottage and come to Mayak. In a year, maybe two, we might return to England but for now I feel that my future and yours could lie here._

_Trust me, father. We could easily make a good life here._

_Your son,_

_Stiles._

 

John stood aside to let his son through the door to the old family cottage, pointedly not asking him what he was doing here knocking on the door and not in Mayak where he was supposed to have been. Using the cane that he despised as the lesser of two evils (the first evil being horrible pain) John made his way over to the stove where the tea kettle was still faintly steaming.

 

“Tea?” he offered.

 

“Thankyou,” Stiles replied, sounding just as dull and tired as he looked.

 

John retrieved one of the delicate china cups Claudia had purchased so long ago, placed the strainer on top, and poured a measured amount of the steaming liquid. He didn’t have any lemon to add to it but doubted that his son would mind. Or even notice, given the state he was in.

 

Very carefully John walked over to the table, glad to see that Stiles had taken a seat without needing to be prompted, and set the cup down in front of his son. He lowered himself back into his own chair with a grunt, cursing the combination of old age and injury that made his joints ache so much when it rained. The letter was still there on the table, sitting face up and open for anyone to see.

 

It had arrived only a few days ago, wrapped around a hundred pounds sterling and a delicate gold silk ribbon that the post-script claimed was a gift from one of his students. The money was long gone, deposited at the local bank as soon as he’d been able and sent off to pay his lenders. The ribbon remained, held in place on the table by the salt cellar.

 

Stiles was staring at it, that letter, tea seemingly forgotten.

 

John sighed. “I suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t get around to selling yet,” he said and sipped his tea, looking at his son over the rim of his cup. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” John added gently, when all Stiles did was continue to stare at the letter. “I won’t press. I’m just here to listen should you want to talk.”

 

Stiles blinked. He raised his head slightly to look at John instead, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy, dark smudges beneath them. “I…” Stiles croaked, his hands twitching into fists as he shook his head. “I fell in love with the wrong person,” he said finally, “it… didn’t work out. I had – had to leave.”

 

Visions of his son falling for a beautiful, exotic woman danced through John’s head. A princess maybe, or a member of the Mayakan nobility – someone untouchable, someone an English schoolteacher wouldn’t have a chance in heaven of reaching. Knowing his son, Stiles would have fallen hard. And completely. It was a trait that Stilinski men shared, loving so quickly and so deeply that it could tear a man apart if he lost it. Stiles looked torn apart.

 

John stood. He rounded the table and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. He felt it when his son’s shoulders started to shake, heard the trembling breaths of a man trying hard to hold back his tears.

 

“He gave us money,” Stiles whispered miserably, voice muffled by his hands. “I didn’t know – didn’t find it until I was on the ship – he just… ten thousand pounds, dad. Derek – he knew – he left a note – it said…” Stiles’ breath hitched, his cracked whisper trailing off into sobs.

 

John was frozen. “Ten thousand…?” he repeated.

 

“He wants me to have a good life,” Stiles sobbed, then dissolved completely.

 

John watched his son curl forward over the table, Stiles’ hands clutched close to his chest as if somehow trying to physically protect his broken heart. He could feel his own eyes prickle at the sight. John carefully lowered himself to his knees, kneeling beside his son and reaching out to draw the younger man into a comforting hug.

 

“It’s ok,” he soothed, rubbing Stiles’ back and letting him sob brokenly into his shoulder. “It’ll be ok, son.”

 

Because once upon a time John had lost Claudia, and while the ache still crept up on him sometimes the sharpness had dulled with time. Stiles would be alright again. Until then John was just going to have to look after him a while.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**_Royal Palace, capital city of Mayak – Spring of 1864_ **

 

“I was brought here to teach the King’s children,” Stiles said, exasperated with all of the delays and his treatment so far. Being marched here and there by an escort of guards who didn’t speak a word of English, being told to sit and wait only to then be told he was in the wrong wing and he had to go sit and wait over _there_ instead as meanwhile his luggage was whisked off to lord-knows-where, and on top of that being informed that the rooms he’d been promised in the palace didn’t seem to exist. At least not on any of the paperwork the steward had seen.

 

“I was promised a schoolhouse, a residency, and a monthly salary of one hundred pounds. The letter I have says I was to have at _least_ a day to get settled in before any audience with the King. Now I’ve been here for barely half a day, shuffled from one wing of this maze of a palace to the other and told that not only do I _not_ have anywhere to stay but I have to wait to see the King _now_ \- without even having the time to make myself presentable!”

 

“The King will not care what you look like,” a voice said from behind him.

 

Stiles whirled around on his heel to see a young man about his own age standing a polite distance away on the carpet. The young man was blonde and pale – most likely European in descent rather than native Mayakan – and he looked perversely amused by Stiles’ exasperation, his lips turned upwards into a suspicious little smile. His feet were bare, which explained how he seemed to have just appeared without a sound for warning.

 

 “Your qualifications will be enough,” the young man assured him.

 

“I don’t _have_ my qualifications!” Stiles threw his arms up and gestured back down the hallway in the direction the porter (or whatever he was) had taken his things. “They were in my luggage with the rest of my things. For safekeeping. Because I didn’t think I’d be going _straight into a meeting_!”

 

If he had, he would have dressed in one of his better suits, not the plain tweed one he was currently wearing – dusty from travel and creased from sitting in the back of a hard-bottomed carriage. He would have styled his hair with pomade and not left it loose for the wind to play about with. Heck, if he’d known what had waited him at the palace he’d have not only kept his papers on him but he’d have stuffed his pockets with crackers and stopped for a drink on the way.

 

“I am sorry, you must be tired,” the young man agreed, blonde curls bobbing as he nodded. “The King can’t be kept waiting, but once you have spoken you will be able to rest.”

 

“Yes, but _where_ ,” Stiles sighed, arms dropping back down to his sides as he deflated.

 

“Everything will be explained,” the young man said, and gestured for him to come forward. “The King is ready to see you. We should not keep him waiting.”

 

“Oh, no, of course not,” Stiles grumbled under his breath even as he straightened his shoulders and adjusted his suit jacket as best he could. “ _Royalty_ mustn’t be kept waiting.”

 

Unlike lowly foreign-born English teachers.

 

“Follow me please,” the young man said with a nod that made his blonde curls bounce.

 

“Sure,” Stiles agreed, defeated. “Why not?”

 

The blonde man smiled at him, nodded again, and then turned and started walking swiftly and silently away. Stiles had to jog a few steps to catch up to him, then he found himself keeping pace with the other man as they walked down yet another corridor and through an archway into what could only be described as a ‘throne room’. Possibly _the_ Throne Room. Honestly, Stiles had no idea. All he knew was that the room was big – very big – its floors and walls made of polished marble that sparkled and shone in the lamplight.

 

A carpet led from the arched doorway right down the centre of the cavern-like room, making a walkway from the door to the dais at the very end. People stood on either side of the carpet, milling around in small clusters of brightly-clothed dignitaries, ambassadors and courtiers. Servants or slaves – Stiles wasn’t sure which – lined the walls at intervals, ready and waiting to fetch and carry as needed.

 

Above all of this splendour, two steps up from the rest of the floor, sat the only piece of furniture in the entire room. And on that piece of furniture sat a man that could only be Derek H’Aighl, King of Mayak.

 

In preparing for his journey Stiles had sought out the few portraits of the Mayakan King available in the public libraries, both painted portraits and tintype photographs. They did not do justice to the reality of the man. Stiles had thought the King handsome in the portraits – in full colour reality he was nothing short of beautiful. Hair like the night sky, clipped short at the sides and pulled back from his face into an elaborate tail. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass matched a physique that could easily have belonged to a Roman sculpture. And – just for an extra shock to the system, Stiles thought – he was half naked, feet bare, clad only in loose cloth of gold trousers, a sheer scarf draped across his shoulders.

 

Stiles’ mouth went dry, his cheeks flushing a sudden and unflatteringly splotchy pink.

 

Which of course meant that the King chose that moment to look away from the robed minister he was speaking to and right at Stiles instead. Pale eyes looked him up and down, flicked to the young man beside him for a moment, then slid away without acknowledgement. Stiles’ face burned.

 

A hand on his shoulder gently steered him off the carpet and to the side, where he stood sullenly with his blonde escort.

 

“I thought you said he was ready to see me,” Stiles grumbled quietly to the man beside him, voice low so it wouldn’t carry amongst the general chatter.

 

“He has seen you,” the blonde man replied, far too casually for Stiles’ liking. “Now we must wait for him to speak to you.”

 

“Of course,” Stiles muttered, because naturally it wouldn’t be _that_ easy.

 

On the dais the King nodded, and the minister he’d been speaking to bowed, then backed away two steps to join a cluster of other men dressed in similar robes. The King straightened suddenly, his attention abruptly caught by something to the rear of the room. There was a ripple of movement, the crowd, Stiles included, turning their heads to see what was happening.

 

“The ambassador of D’Argent,” Stiles’ blonde companion explained in a murmur. “The Emperor does not wish to repeat past mistakes, so he sends his minister of peace to curry favour with the King.”

 

D’Argent - the country that shared a border with Mayakan’s south. From what Stiles head read they had been at war on and off for generations, and it was only recently that a peace accord had been reached. The fact that the D’Argentine Emperor was sending someone to curry favour with the Mayakan King spoke volumes.

 

The Ambassador – or the man Stiles guessed was the ambassador – was a light skinned man in his forties dressed in the colours of the D’Argent family. He was followed by two soldiers in the uniform of the D’Argent royal guard. The Ambassador stepped forward and bowed, then spoke loudly and clearly so that the whole room could hear.

 

“He says the Emperor sends good wishes,” Stiles’ companion translated for him quietly, “and a gift for the King.”

 

The Ambassador stepped aside, revealing that the two soldiers were positioned on either side of a smaller, younger man who was dressed in white silk that complimented his tanned skin. He looked meek, his eyes firmly on the floor, his hands clasped in front of himself. No – Stiles realised after a moment. Not clasped. Bound by a silver chain, the end held firmly in the Ambassador’s hand.

 

“A gift,” Stiles repeated, barely remembering to keep his voice to a whisper. “ _That’s_ the gift? That boy?”

 

“He is very attractive,” the blonde man murmured approvingly.

 

On the dais the King slowly leaned back in his seat. He spoke, and though Stiles couldn’t understand a word of the Mayakan language the man’s voice sent a shiver through him. Cool, commanding, but lighter than he would have expected, authority thrummed through every syllable.

 

“The King is pleased with D’Argent’s gift,” the translation was spoken quietly. “He will make a good addition to our number.”

 

Startled, Stiles looked at the blonde man, his eyes wide. He couldn’t help but look over the young man anew, suddenly realising that out of everyone in the room only the blonde man and the King himself were barefoot. Furthermore, the blonde was dressed much more casually than the others in the room but in much finer fabric – delicate bronze silk and soft cotton so light it was almost sheer.

 

He’d heard that the people in this region were uncaring of the gender of their lovers, that partnerships and even marriages between two men or two women weren’t that uncommon. He’d even heard rumours – spoken in sneering, condescending tones – that King Derek himself had ‘wives’ of both genders.

 

Once again, hearing rumours was different from actually seeing the evidence for himself.

 

“You’re –”

 

“H’volk,” the young man nodded, clearly more than amused by Stiles’ shock.

 

During their interaction the D’Argent Ambassador had handed off the chain to one of the King’s men. The ‘gift’ looked distraught as he was led away, his large brown eyes pleading with the Ambassador. Still, he remained silent, his tears falling without a sound, and within moments had disappeared from sight completely.

 

A loud clap echoed throughout the room, the low hum of murmuring voices suddenly turned to silence. There was a ripple through the crowd as every single person in the room bowed, some lower than others, and then a burst of movement as they all began to file out of the room. Uncertain whether he was supposed to go with them, Stiles was saved from his hesitation by a gentle hand on his elbow.

 

“The King will speak with you now,” the blonde man told him. “When the others are gone, we will approach him.”

 

Without the low-level chatter from the courtiers the throne room was eerily silent and intimidatingly empty. Servants remained stationed at intervals around the room but they were silent and still enough that they may as well have been statues. Several robed ministers still stood nearby the dais, waiting patiently to be engaged or dismissed. And the King…

 

King Derek was leaning casually in his seat, his eyes firmly on Stiles’ face.

 

Stiles swallowed with a click, hoping the movement of his throat wasn’t visible, and followed the blonde man back onto the carpet and across the room. They stopped a short distance from the dais, close enough that Stiles now saw that the King’s nipples were pierced, as were his ears, and that he wore gold rings on several of his toes as well as his fingers.

 

The blonde man beside him bowed and after a beat Stiles did so as well, feeling stiff and awkward.

 

“My King, His Majesty King Derek H’Aighl of Mayak, the Lord of Wolves,” the blonde man said, still speaking in English (Stiles assumed for his benefit), “may I present Mr. Stiles Stilinski.”

 

“You are the English teacher,” the King said, his pale coloured eyes weaving their way from the top of Stiles’ head all the way down to his feet.

 

“I am,” Stiles confirmed, remembering half a moment later to add; “Your Majesty.”

 

“We are pleased to have you here,” the King nodded, a controlled and serene movement. “As Mayak comes to trade with the outside world it does us well to be educated in the ways of the west. You were brought here to teach my children, but you will also teach my wives. As such you will live in the h’volkan dhar. It is close to your class room and to the inner courtyards of the palace. Isaac will be your assistant. He knows English well enough, though he has no experience teaching.”

 

Stiles glanced at the blonde man beside him – Isaac – and cleared his throat. “Thankyou, your majesty. However –”

 

“Your salary shall be paid in full at the end of each calendar month,” the King cut him off as though he hadn’t heard a single syllable after his title. “Eighty pounds per month –”

 

“ _Eighty_?” Stiles gasped, starting to feel more than a little steamrolled. “What –”

 

“– equivalent to English currency. You may discuss further details with Emissary Deaton.  Isaac will show you to your rooms.” The King finished, inkling his head slightly towards the young blonde man. “That is all. You may go.”

 

“Your majesty,” Stiles began, squaring his shoulders, “I –”

 

“That is all,” the King repeated firmly, his eyes narrowed slightly. “You may go.”

 

Stiles might have stayed to argue – he’d never been known for his self-preservation skills or his ability to back down from a debate – but Isaac had wrapped a hand around his arm and was gently tugging him backwards away from the dais. Stiles shut his mouth and grit his teeth, resolving to find the letter in his belongings as soon as possible and get things sorted out the way they were supposed to be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In his agitation it didn’t occur to him where exactly they were going until they entered the h’volkan dhar – known in English as the Wolf Wing, Isaac explained – and suddenly the cold marble opulence of the main palace was replaced with plaster walls and polished wood floors.

 

It was a more comfortable kind of luxury, homely in the way that English mansions could be homely. More fitting for children to live in than in the cold walls and marble hallways from before, Stiles thought. He followed Isaac down the hallway, passing open archways that led into various sitting rooms and parlours, and one that he suspected was to be his classroom. Seeing the number of chairs inside, Stiles turned to Isaac curiously.

 

“How many children does the King have?” he asked. “I was never told – the letters I got never said, though they implied it was more than one or two. And how many wives?” he added as a slightly resentful afterthought, “since clearly I’m going to be teaching them as well.”

 

“The King has only three wives,” Isaac replied, as if that were not only a perfectly normal number to have but also quite a conservative amount. For Mayakan royalty it probably was. “He also inherited several companions from his mother. His uncle’s wives often reside in the palace as well, while the General is away. Two of them are here now. I suspect they’ll wish to be taught as well.”

 

“And the children?” Stiles prompted, deciding not to think too long or too hard about multiple wives or inherited companions.

 

“The King has thirty children,” Isaac said, and grinned outright at the bug-eyed expression of shock that garnered. “A large number, but he cares for each of his little wolves.”

 

“ _Thirty_ children?” Stiles goggled at the number, thinking it was a good thing he had experience teaching full classrooms with children of varying ages. “And three wives?”

 

“No heirs yet,” Isaac added. “Though his head wife, Julia, is pregnant.”

 

Thirty children and no heirs. The idea made absolutely no sense to Stiles, but he supposed that the Mayakan had their own ways of doing things and it wasn’t his place to question what the fuck that was about. At least not aloud anyway. Doubtless it would all be explained eventually as he learned about the culture he’d found himself in. Leaping in head first was practically a Stilinski tradition. The culture shock would fade. The money would be worth it… as soon as he got that pesky missing twenty pounds a month sorted out.

 

“This is the courtyard,” Isaac said as they exited the hallway and entered a large, airy space like an indoor garden, the roof high and made from carved wooden screens that let in the light while diffusing the harsh sun. “Your rooms are through that door on the other side,” he pointed to a similar door to the one they’d come through. “First on the left.”

 

Stiles wasn’t paying attention though. He’d stopped walking just a few steps into the courtyard, brought up short by the sight of ten or so people seated on the stone benches that ringed the courtyard.

 

Most of them were young, between the ages of sixteen and thirty if he’d had to guess, and split more or less evenly between the sexes. There was one blonde, but most of them were dark haired and a handful had dark skin that ranged in tone from light brown to almost blue-black. Like Isaac they were barefoot and dressed in light, luxurious silk, gold jewellery winking in the sunlight at throats or ears or wrists (or all three). And, again like Isaac, every single one of the men and women in the courtyard were attractive in their own unique ways – an array of human beauty to match the pretty white flowers that dotted the trees.

 

And there, seated in a corner and seemingly being comforted by the lone blonde woman and a tall, handsome black man, was the boy from before. The ‘gift’, now without chains but still looking miserable.

 

Stiles made as if to speak but couldn’t figure out what to say, brought up short by the realisation that the Wolf Wing was clearly not synonymous with ‘children’s wing’ as he’d previously assumed. 

 

Isaac frowned at him, clearly not sure what exactly the problem was or why the travel-weary foreigner no longer seemed keen to get to his rooms and get some rest. It only took him a glance to see what had caused Stiles to stop. Isaac shook his head. “You shouldn’t worry about him,” he said calmly, apparently unbothered by the crying boy in the corner. “He’ll adapt in time, and then he’ll be ashamed of the tears he cried.”

 

Stiles slowly turned, his shock turning into a quiet, burning anger fuelled by all of the frustrations, delays and unpleasant surprises he’d faced since arriving that morning. “ _Ashamed_?” he demanded, mouth running away with him before he could remember his decision just minutes earlier to politely ignore any glaring cultural differences. “Ashamed that he’s been ripped from the life he knew and sent to be part of a foreign king’s harem?”

 

Even putting aside the question of whether or not he was remotely attracted to men, Stiles could see nothing about the situation that warranted anything other than sympathy for the boy. The very fact that he’d been in chains implied that he wasn’t at the palace of his own volition. He was a ‘gift’, given over like property, probably plucked from whatever life he’d known only to be sent away to a foreign country away from everyone he knew and loved. And now, _of course_ , he was just expected to adapt.

 

“There’s nothing for him to cry about,” Isaac insisted.

 

“ _Nothing_ – are you serious? How can you condone this?” Stiles demanded of the blonde-haired man in front of him. “Were you ripped away from your life too? Did some foreign king send _you_ here as a gift for the King to fuck?”

 

Stiles shut his mouth, aware that he’d definitely gone too far and realising he could get into serious trouble if anyone repeated what he’d just said. Insulting royalty in their own palace was never a good idea, not even back home.

 

Isaac looked shocked, his eyes almost comically wide.

 

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean that,” Stiles started, before Isaac could say anything in response. “I just – I know things are different here – I’m not used to the idea of… It’s been a _very_ long day,” Stiles finished, looking at Isaac beseechingly and hoping desperately that the blonde was the only one in the courtyard who understood enough English to realise just how thoroughly Stiles had insulted the King.

 

Everyone was looking at them, he knew. They might not understand exactly what he’d said (he really hoped they didn’t understand exactly what he’d said) but they’d heard the tone it was said in and knew something was wrong.

 

Isaac blinked at him for a moment. He looked towards the corner where the boy – the ‘gift’ – still sat, now watching them both with interest despite his red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked face. When Isaac turned back to Stiles his expression was sympathetic.

 

“Stiles…” he started hesitantly, “I think you have a misunderstanding of what we are. Of what he will be.”

 

“A misunderstanding,” Stiles repeated, running a hand through his already travel-messy hair. “Sure. Lets run with that.”

 

Isaac shook his head, lips turning up slightly into a wry smile. “The English word you used, ‘harem’. I’m not sure it means the right thing. This wing of the palace is for the King’s wives, the women he has married for politics or to bear his children, and for us. His wolf children. H’volk. We live in this wing of the palace, and we are his. The King provides for us, cares for us, and in return he is able to be himself with us. We keep his secrets. We are…” the blonde man paused and made a face there, as if he knew the words weren’t quite right but couldn’t think of a better description to be made in English.  “ _Companions_.”

 

Stiles blinked, his previous anger completely derailed. He knew his mouth was hanging slightly open, his brain moving a hundred miles a minute as he processed this new information and what it might mean.

 

‘Wolf children’, not _actual_ children. Companions and confidants to the King. Which explained how there could be thirty children and no heirs. His contract wasn’t to be a schoolteacher to children, but to teach adults to speak English and to give them a European education.

 

Presumably so they would understand more about the trade agreements and treaties being made with the West.

 

“He will never be asked to have sex with the King,” Isaac continued, nodding towards the boy in the corner. “It’s not expected, or encouraged.”

 

The boy in the corner stood, dodging his two shadows, and quickly crossed the courtyard until he was close to them. “This isn’t a ‘k’vassi’?” he asked, his English good enough that Stiles could barely detect an accent. “You aren’t the king’s concubines?”

 

“What’s your name?” Isaac asked instead of answering the boy directly.

 

“Scott,” the boy replied, looking uncertain again.

 

“Why did your Emperor send you here?”

 

“To join King Derek’s k’vassi,” Scott said, looking puzzled by the line of questioning. At least as puzzled as Stiles felt. “To get rid of me,” he added after a moment, “because his grand-daughter wanted to make me her consort, and I’m only a guard’s son.”

 

Stiles’ eyebrows raised. Did that count as political intrigue?  And he’d only been in the palace for… four hours now. “No wonder you were expecting the worst. Not that I can blame you, since _I_ expected the worst.”

 

“My father sold me to the palace when I was sixteen,” Isaac informed them both. “I wish he’d done it sooner. You don’t _have_ to find your place straight away,” he said to Scott, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just know it’s never in the King’s bed… Unless you want it to be,” Isaac grinned wickedly.

 

Scott looked horrified by the very idea.

 

“Come on,” Isaac said, amused by the younger man’s expression. “We’ll get our new English teacher settled, then I’ll show you where to get some new clothes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles’ accommodation turned out to be a small, well-appointed suite that included a sitting room, bedroom, and dressing room. The rooms were spacious, the sitting room alone almost as large as the cottage he’d shared with his father back home. Sparsely furnished, what furniture the rooms had were simple but elegant pieces made from expensive hardwood that complimented the cream-and-gold décor.

 

His things, Stiles noted, had already been placed in their proper order. He hadn’t had much. A few small bags and a medium-sized trunk were all he’d needed to pack practically everything he owned in the world.

 

He should be mad. He should hate the idea that someone had gone through his things and put them away without his say so.

 

Instead, worn down after what felt like a week’s worth of ups and downs condensed into a single day, he just sighed.

 

He could be mad later. Right now he just wanted to take his shoes off, wash his face, and have a nap. Once he’d done that he’d be refreshed enough to hunt down the letter that had been in his belongings and to remind the King of his promised salary. _Politely_. Because as much as Stiles grated at his treatment so far he _needed_ this job to work out. He needed that hundred pounds a month – or that eighty, if it came to that – to send back home.

 

He could do polite, Stiles thought to himself as he unlaced his shoes. He was capable of controlling what came out of his mouth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Maybe promises don’t mean anything here in Mayak, but back where I come from people _actually_ keep their word,” Stiles announced, jabbing his finger in the air for emphasis. “Or maybe you think that just because you’re royalty you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing? Oh, the poor English teacher wants his full hundred pounds a month that I promised _in writing_ – well screw him, I’m King fucking Derek and I do what I want!”

 

Stiles snapped his mouth shut, breathing out hard through his nose, eyes gone wide and round. It had occurred to him even as he was speaking that he shouldn’t have said that. And he definitely should not have just put on a mocking voice and _badly impersonated the King to his face_.

 

The King’s eyelid twitched. His eyebrows were drawn down low, his mouth pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. He looked about ready to murder Stiles with his bare hands and frankly the teacher was surprised that he hadn’t already.

 

And it had been going so well.

 

After a short nap on his very comfortable new bed Stiles had cleaned himself up and gotten dressed in one of his better suits – figuring that he might as well try to make a better impression than before. He’d managed to finagle his way into obtaining a private meeting with King Derek for that evening, somehow having found the right person to pester and the right phrasing with which to ask for an informal audience. He’d then nervously paced his way through the hours, fidgeting and just barely nibbling on the food Isaac had thoughtfully had sent to him.

 

It had come dark before he was finally summoned, collected by a servant in palace blue who had led him through yet another maze of corridors to a different part of the palace that Stiles could only assume included some sort of private audience chamber.

 

He’d been left to wait in an odd round room that looked like a library or study of some kind, its walls lined with expensive-looking books with leather bindings stamped with gold gilt. Stiles had hovered uncertainly in that room, not sure if he should chance taking a seat or if that would be rude, when a door on the opposite side of the room had opened and the King had entered.

 

Remembering his manners, Stiles had bowed low.

 

It had felt a little surreal to find himself sitting opposite the King in the study’s comfortable velvet-backed chairs, Stiles dressed formally in a nice suit while the King wore an open robe over his loose gold trousers. Up close Stiles could see that the eyes he’d assumed were just a pale green were actually more mercurial than that, appearing more grey or blue or even hazel depending on the way the light hit them. The voice he’d remembered as cold and commanding had been warmer. And all in all things had been going quite well… right up until Stiles had brought out the letter.

 

And now he was going to die, murdered by King Derek’s stare.

 

“Are you finished?” The king’s voice was flat, completely devoid of inflection.

 

“I, uh,” Stiles stuttered, his mouth continuing to fail him – this time with newly found ineloquence.

 

“Are you quite finished,” Derek repeated coolly, each measured word bitten off like the act of saying them left a bad taste in his mouth, “insulting me in my own house?”

 

“Well,” Stiles began, reluctantly admitting to himself that there was no way he was going to be able to keep his lips buttoned. It was like Oxford all over again – only worse, because instead of academic debate he was literally challenging the word of a King. “Your Majesty, that depends on whether or not you’re going to continue to insult _me_.”

 

“You believe I have insulted you?” Derek asked, one eyebrow ticking upwards a notch. He leaned forward slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, and Stiles found himself leaning back in response. “I have offered you work. I have paid for your passage from England. I have given you a place to stay within my family’s wing. You have been given the assistance of one of my own children. Your position here will be one that grants you status within my court. For all of this I will pay you… And you believe that to be an _insult_?”

 

“You brought me here under false pretences,” Stiles replied, pretty pleased when his voice remained even and didn’t waver under the King’s intimidatingly intense stare. “So yes, when you tell me you’re giving me a whole apple and hand me one with a bite taken out of it, I’d consider that an insult.”

 

A heavy silence descended on the room, but Stiles refused to go back on what he’d said. The letter sat unfolded on the small table between them, the King’s own handwriting and signature clearly visible in the lamplight.

 

Derek continued to stare at him in silence for a few uncomfortably long seconds. Eventually he leaned back in his chair again, his chin tilting up slightly in a way that brought attention to the strong lines of his jaw.

 

Unconsciously Stiles’ gaze followed that jaw down to the King’s throat and the shadowy dip above his clavicle.

 

“When I began looking for someone to teach my children,” Derek began suddenly, startling Stiles into quickly flicking his gaze away from the other man’s chest, “several names were brought to my attention. University professors. Renowned educators. Men and women of great reputation. And Stiles Stilinski, schoolteacher. The others had multiple references. Letters of recommendation. I sent my offer to _you_ based on the advice of one English Ambassador.” Derek’s left eyebrow twitched upward again, raising just a hair. “Mr Whittemore claimed that _you_ were the better choice to put my children at ease.”

 

Stiles felt his own eyebrows rise, his face falling into an expression of open surprise. Whittemore – _Jackson, or Jackson’s father_? he wondered – had said that about _him_? Whittemore was the English ambassador to Mayak? When had that happened? The last he’d heard of that family had been when they left for Paris, before Stiles had even finished his own schooling.

 

Did they know about his money troubles? His father’s health?

 

“I, uh, I’m flattered?” Stiles winced a little at his own phrasing.

 

“Mr Whittemore did not mention,” Derek continued, nonplussed, “that you were a stubborn ass with a mouth too big for his own good.”

 

“I’m sorry?” Stiles blurted. Though he wasn’t sure he had the right to be insulted, since it was pretty much the truth.

 

“Is that a _question_?” Derek’s voice wavered in an odd sort of way, his mouth twitching slightly on one side.

 

“No. I mean… yes?” Stiles narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Are you… making fun of me?”

 

“Mr Stilinski, I will promise you this; Apologise to me for the insult to my person and I will grant you your extra twenty pounds per month.” Derek tapped the fingers of one hand against his knee. “Assuming that is not an insult to you?”

 

“Yes. I mean, no – it’s not. I didn’t mean to, uh, let my – to call you – to imply that…” Stiles cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, sitting up straight in his seat and putting on his professional face before starting over; “Your Majesty, I am truly sorry for what I said. I was out of line, and I shouldn’t have let my frustration get the better of me. I could promise you it won’t happen again… But, uh, it probably will,” he admitted reluctantly.

 

“Will it now?”

 

“Well… not in public?” Stiles asked, deciding that honesty was probably the best policy. Better to warn the King now than surprise him with another runaway insult down the line. “I know better than to just say whatever comes into my head, I do, it’s just a lot easier to forget the consequences when I’m frustrated and we’re alone in a private room and you look like you’re wearing pyjamas.”

 

Derek’s mouth twitched again.

 

“You do,” Stiles said helplessly, with a vague gesture towards the King’s loose robe, “look like you’re wearing pyjamas. _Are_ you wearing…? No. Sorry. I don’t –”

 

“Be quiet,” Derek interrupted him firmly, covering his face with a hand. “Please.”

Obediently, Stiles shut his mouth. And bit the inside of his cheek to remind himself to _keep_ it shut. He took his dismissal with as much grace as he could muster and silently resolved to try not to be the cause of any trouble for the next few days at least.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles was fully convinced that it was a mixture of luck and circumstance that allowed him to get through the next few days without insulting anyone or accidentally stumbling his way into trouble.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He had been in the palace for two weeks.

 

Those two weeks had passed quickly in a blur of unfamiliarity while Stiles worked hard to acclimate to the culture inherent to the Wolf Wing as well as to Mayak in general. It was doubly hard when only a few of the people he spoke to were fluent in English, the rest knowing only a little that they’d picked up here and there but not nearly enough to make for a full conversation. Though in time his lessons would put an end to that.

 

They were the only thing that seemed to go the way he expected, as outside the classroom there always seemed to be some new and surprising facet of life in Mayak to learn about. Stiles enjoyed his work, glad that teaching was the same anywhere in the world. He taught proper classes in the mornings, utilizing the classroom in the Wolf Wing, and held an informal study group in the evenings out in the courtyard.

 

His students were attentive, eager to learn, and seemingly fascinated by how easy it could be to fluster him.

 

While he technically had a decent amount of spare time on his hands, Stiles still managed to find ways to fill up the hours so that he was rarely left with nothing to do. He spent his time planning lessons, learning his way around the maze of the palace, and attempting to learn the Mayakan language from Scott and Isaac. Because when he had nothing to do he had nothing to keep his mind from wandering back to England.

 

He’d written letters. Had spent hours writing and rewriting them, wasted so many sheets of paper that it was starting to become embarrassing. What could he say in them though? What hadn’t already been said?

 

_Dearest father,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and not neck deep in creditors threatening to have the constabulary take you to the debtors’ gaol. How are your lungs? Are they still troubling you as much as they were in the city? I’ve made acquaintance with several interesting persons here in Mayak and find the cultural differences at once fascinating and on occasion terribly startling. I am doing my best to not have a heart attack every time I see someone wandering around barely dressed, an occurrence which happens with alarming frequency in the palace wing where I have been given residence._

_Please find enclosed a sum of money to see you through the month._

_Sincerely,  
Your Impetuous and Pigheaded Son,_

_Stiles._

 

Absolutely not.

 

He couldn’t write in too much detail or he’d worry his father back into the sickbed. His father did not need to know about his tumultuous beginning, or the feeling of awkwardness that still followed him whenever he saw Derek anywhere in the Wolf Wing. He definitely didn’t need to hear about the way the king smiled when he spoke to his ‘children’, or how Stiles had glimpsed him sparring in the courtyard with Boyd and Erica the other day and how Derek had laughed delightedly after the blonde had managed to kick him in the chin. His father would probably wonder why on earth Stiles was telling him about King Derek’s surprisingly adorable front teeth and how very _different_ he seemed when he wasn’t acting official.

 

A glance at the light streaming in from the window told him that it was too early yet for dinner or for lessons, so unless he wanted to hunt down chores for himself to do Stiles’ best bet at a distraction lay in any of the courtyards outside. 

 

He followed the sounds of chatter to one of the Wolf Wing’s larger courtyards – the one with the person-sized checker board made of white and black tiles overlooked by a shady pavilion in the centre. A game was currently in play, being directed on one side by the King’s pregnant first wife, and on the other side by a petite redhead with a militant expression on her very pretty face. Derek himself stood nearby, arms crossed over his bare chest as he watched the game, eyes crinkled in amusement.

 

Spectators had taken seats in the shade both on the pavilion steps and on the benches inside. Scott waved him over from a bench he was sharing with Isaac and Stiles trotted over, pleased to note that there was plenty of room for a third person to sit.

 

“Who’s winning?” Stiles asked as he sat.

 

“Lydia so far,” Scott informed him, “but it’s close. Julia keeps pulling these really sneaky moves.”

 

“Julia is our current champion,” Isaac added, his eyes riveted on the game. “Lydia has been trying to beat her for years. If she doesn’t make any big mistakes she may do it this time.”

 

Which, in terms of the politics within the Wolf Wing, had the potential to set the cat amongst the pigeons. Or it could have, Stiles mused, if either of the two women were at all interested in jockeying for Derek’s favour. Though it was kept fairly quiet and the Mayakan royals in general were very discrete, it was an open secret that Julia’s favour lay more with her handmaiden than with her husband – an arrangement that Derek himself seemed to support. And it was common knowledge even outside the Wolf Wing that Lydia had accepted the match her parents had made for her largely because of the H’Aighl library and the access that being one of Derek’s wives provided.

 

In short, the two women were friends rather than rivals, and the atmosphere surrounding the match reflected that.

 

Julia had just made a move, directing one of her players to a new square, when a man Stiles didn’t recognise walked into the courtyard followed by an unfamiliar teenaged girl.

 

For just a moment everything continued as usual. Then suddenly the girl broke into a run, practically flying across the courtyard to barrel into Derek at full speed, tackling him to the ground with a whoop.

 

Alarmed, Stiles stood, Isaac beside him. He was expecting the other man to shout – he wasn’t expecting him to hurry down the steps and throw himself at the man the way the girl had thrown herself at Derek, though the man caught Isaac in a bear hug rather than let himself be knocked over.

 

Players abandoned their squares to swarm the newcomers; The girl was on the ground digging her fingers into Derek’s ribs and attacking him with merciless tickles while he writhed in highly undignified peals of laughter. The man had one arm slung around Isaac’s shoulders while he greeted one of Julia’s former checker-pieces with a kiss.

 

Stiles stayed frozen in place, baffled by the display.

 

“General Peter H’Aighl,” Scott informed him from where he still sat in the shade, away from the happy chaos below. He was an outsider to this too, Stiles remembered. “King Derek’s uncle. And I think that’s his daughter, Malia.”

 

“ _That’s_ the General?” Stiles gestured to the man, remembering the one black and white tintype he’d seen of General Peter H’Aighl and wondering whether the photographer had been drunk. “Someone should fire that photographer,” he muttered.

 

The man in the photograph had been stern-faced and forbidding, his eyes hidden by deep shadows, his shoulders broad and imposing. The man in the courtyard had the same wide shoulders, but his face was open and currently dominated by a gleaming smile. Mid-forties, Peter wore his light brown hair in a similar style to the king and kept a small, neatly trimmed beard. He didn’t look too much like his nephew, though there were enough similarities between them that Stiles didn’t question the relation.

 

Wicked blue eyes caught his own and Stiles felt his face go hot at the odd, knowing look on the older man’s face. Almost as if Peter could read minds and knew full well that he’d caught Stiles comparing him to his nephew.

 

“Dearest nephew,” Peter called aloud, eyes not leaving Stiles’ face, “won’t you come introduce me to your newest companion? I had heard that D’Argent had sent you a gift but I didn’t think the old badger had such good taste.”

 

Isaac, still casually leaning into Peter’s side, hit the older man’s chest lightly with the back of his hand. “You should behave,” he told Peter even as he smirked, amusement clear on his face. “Stiles isn’t one of us and he isn’t used to your wicked ways.”

 

“Not one of you…?” Peter raised his eyebrows, then grinned. “Now that _is_ interesting.”

 

“Peter,” Derek’s voice cut across the courtyard, a clear warning in his tone. Stiles dragged his eyes away from the general to see the king standing beside his grinning cousin. Derek’s eyes locked with his for just a moment, then the king’s gaze slid away and he strode across the courtyard to his uncle. “Mr Stilinski joins us from England,” he said, the barest hint of emphasis on the country’s name. “He is my h’volkan’s tutor in English.”

 

“Is that so?” Peter looked even more intrigued, if that were at all possible. “Does this mean all of your lovely darlings will understand me now when I speak sweet nothings in this delightfully complex language?”

 

Derek didn’t offer a verbal reply to his uncle and instead gave him a dry, unimpressed stare.

 

Deciding that he’d had enough of being talked about but not to, Stiles butted in; “Well I’ve only been here for two weeks but I’ve already managed to teach everyone to cuss so I’m pretty sure that even if they don’t understand they’ll still be able to respond appropriately and call you an asshole.”

 

Derek covered his face with a hand, shoulders hunching slightly in a way that could either indicate supressed laughter or genuine despair. Peter looked shocked, blinking in stunned silence for a moment before grinning wide and devilish.

 

“Oh, I like you,” he said approvingly. “Keep this one, Derek.”

 

“ _’This one_ ’ isn’t the sort of man that gets kept, your highness,” Stiles replied, much to Peter’s continuing delight. “And he doesn’t appreciate being spoken about as if he isn’t standing right here. It’s rude.”

 

“And the English are so very proper about their courtesies,” Peter’s rejoinder was spoken with great amusement. “Forgive me,” he drawled, even adding a mocking nod of a bow, “for offending your delicate English sensibilities. Next time I wish to talk about you in your presence I’ll speak in Mayakan, shall I?”

 

“Uncle,” Derek said warningly.

 

“Stick a bee in it, nephew. The adults are talking, and Mr Stilinski has made it quite plain that he can speak for himself.”

 

Stiles narrowed his eyes slightly. He opened his mouth to reply but before he could speak Derek said something in Mayakan that made his uncle give him a sharp look. For a moment there was silence as both H’Aighls stared at one another. The moment passed, and Peter shook his head.

 

“Apparently I’m not wanted,” he said, turning to Isaac. “Little wolf, will you walk me to my chambers? I’m sure we have _much_ to talk about since I’ve been away.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was long after dark and Stiles was getting ready to turn in for the night when there was a knock on the door. Knowing that late night knocks often meant important business, Stiles hastily buttoned his shirt and went to open the door. To little surprise he found himself faced with a polite-faced servant who handed him a small white card.

 

_Come see me_ , it said, the King’s signature below.

 

“Well, that isn’t ominous at all,” Stiles muttered. He pocketed the card and nodded to the servant, who bowed and waited patiently by the door for Stiles to shrug into his vest and put his shoes back on.

 

He was led to an area in the Wolf Wing that he hadn’t even been aware existed, into a set of rooms that looked like they belonged to the King himself. The evidence was in the portraits on the walls – an oil painting of the former Queen with three young children that could only be Derek and his sisters, miniatures of Derek’s mother, of a young woman who had to be Derek’s late sister Laura, and other people with similar features who had to be relatives. There were photographs as well, old daguerreotypes behind panes of delicate glass, one of them that – if Stiles hadn’t already been accustomed to the practice of photographing the recently deceased – almost looked as if the subject, a small girl, was only sleeping.

 

The King was already in the room when he arrived, standing at the mantle with his back to the room. He turned when the door shut, his handsome face a mask that gave nothing away. When he didn’t make any move to speak Stiles cleared his throat.

 

“You wanted to see me?” he prompted, curious about why exactly he’d been summoned at all, let alone at this time of the night.

 

Derek’s silence extended further, long enough that Stiles was starting to get uncomfortable before he finally spoke, sounding oddly stiff; “I wish to… apologise.”

 

“For what?” Stiles blurted the question before he could think better of it, confusion clear on his face.

 

“My uncle is…” Derek trailed off a moment, the first time Stiles had ever witnessed him do so, as if looking for the right word. “Difficult,” he said finally. “He is an excellent military strategist and tactician, he does our country and our family proud. Still, he is difficult, and I… I apologise for his behaviour.”

 

Baffled, both by the apology and the reason for it, Stiles ran a hand through his hair. “Why?” he asked after a pause to wrap his head around things. “You’re not the asshole here. Your uncle was teasing me, and I know he was teasing me – he was probably testing to see if I’d squirm – so why should _you_ apologise for it?”

 

“You are my guest –” Derek started.

 

“I’m your employee,” Stiles corrected, realising only after he’d spoken that he’d just interrupted the King as if he were an equal and not the ruler of an entire country.

 

Derek’s eyebrow twitched. He eyed Stiles disapprovingly. “You are my guest,” he repeated firmly. “You live in my house, you are my guest. I wish your stay to be pleasant.”

 

“That still doesn’t make you responsible for your uncle,” Stiles pointed out, then figured he should probably try not to be too presumptive and belatedly but politely added, “your majesty. And my stay is pleasant,” he continued a beat later. “Has been pleasant – _is_ pleasant. It’s been – different, but I definitely don’t have any complaints about my stay so far. At least not since our first, uh, disagreement.”

 

A very small smile twitched into place on the King’s face, there and gone in a second. “Good. I’m pleased that you’re enjoying your time with us.”

 

“It’s been easy to enjoy,” Stiles admitted, smiling a bit as he thought about the past couple of weeks. Life back home had been bleak, the dark spectre of debt hanging above his head like a perpetual raincloud. Here it was easy to keep himself busy, his mind occupied with lessons and learning. “These are probably the best students I’ve ever had, you know, every one of them is eager to learn.”

 

Even the ones who had difficulty weren’t dissuaded from learning, instead constantly encouraged by their fellow students and by Isaac, who had taken to his role as Stiles’ teaching assistant with enthusiasm.

 

Stiles hesitated, wary of overstepping, then threw caution to the wind and informed the King seriously; “It’s easy to see how much they care for you, both your wolf children and your wives. They want to make you proud.”

 

Derek smiled again, this one soft and full of fondness in a way that made Stiles’ breath catch in his throat. “I am fortunate,” he said quietly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later, Stiles couldn’t help but think about that smile. The conversation had wound to a natural end, Stiles leaving soon after to return to his own rooms. The next few days it was almost as if Derek didn’t exist – his presence always seeming to be required for important meetings or tasks that kept him confined to his study. It was strange to feel his absence so keenly given that Stiles had rarely spoken to him, the King always seeming to be on the opposite side of the room, the other end of the courtyard, or just passing through the halls on his way to or from his personal chambers. He’d hardly been around at all, but Stiles still felt as if something was missing when he didn’t manage to catch a glimpse of the other man at least once during the course of the day.

 

He understood. Of course he did. Derek was the _King_. He had duties, _responsibilities_ , correspondence to read and reply to, meetings to attend and things to oversee. With General H’Aighl in residence there were probably debriefings to attend, strategy meetings or progress reports or something else important that kept the two of them far away.

 

“Talking,” Malia had told him. “Lots of _boring_ talking. Supply talk, strategy talk, buildings and numbers and budgets. If my father ever expects _me_ to attend he has another thing coming.”

 

So Stiles ignored the feeling that something was missing, pushing it down and away into a little box where it couldn’t trouble him. Instead he took some time out of his few free hours to get to know the King’s cousin, reasoning that it was only polite to introduce himself properly to another of the Wolf Wing’s guests.

 

After just one conversation with her Stiles knew exactly how to describe Malia H’Aighl. He could do it in exactly one word: wild.

 

She was eighteen years old, outspoken, brash, and brutally honest. She was, as the gossip said, the child of the only woman Peter had ever loved. Everything about her was shocking, from her mode of dress to the fact that she could whip a throwing knife across the room and hit a playing card dead centre from twenty paces.

 

Stiles thought she was absolutely wonderful. Her frank, honest way of speaking was a relief to someone who often had difficulty keeping his own mouth shut. For her part she seemed to regard him as an amusing curiosity, a weird whim of her cousin’s that she didn’t quite understand but found interesting anyway. Mainly she seemed interested in grilling him in the differences between Mayakan and English culture and she always made it clear which of the two she thought was superior.

 

“That’s stupid,” she said of the societal expectation that a man should have only one wife (or a woman only one husband). “You can only make one alliance then. And what happens if you fall in love with someone else? Or you want to have sex with someone else?”

 

Stiles just shrugged. Monogamy appealed to him personally, the idea of two people choosing only one another for the rest of their lives. But he was practical enough to know that he was a bit idealistic about love, and that in real life things tended to get complicated.

 

“Some people only want one person,” he told her instead of trying to explain infidelity rates, mistresses, and how women could be shamed if they were caught stepping out. “And even if they don’t it’s not legal to marry more than one person. Unless you get divorced, and that’s pretty hard to do, the first person you marry is the _only_ person you marry.”

 

“Unless that person dies,” Malia said bluntly.

 

Or sometimes even then, Stiles had thought, his mind on his father. Sometimes it really was just one person for the rest of your life, regardless of whether that one person was around for all of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first month passed, Stiles was delivered his salary, and he managed to string together enough words for a proper letter to his father. He hoped it would arrive in time, with the money still inside. Even with good weather it would take at least a couple of weeks for it to get to England, and who knows how long from there to actually find its way to the residence of one John Stilinski.

 

One hundred pounds wasn’t nearly enough to cover their debt, but it was enough of a down payment that it should keep his father’s creditors happy. Another few months and it would be as if nothing had ever happened.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On the fifth day of the new month Stiles was once again summoned to the King’s chambers. This time Derek was seated when he arrived, a length of bronze silk wrapped around his shoulders almost like a shawl, and a chess board on the table in front of him. There was an empty chair on the opposite side of the table, carved wood with a plush red pillow. Stiles hesitated for a barely a moment, then gave an internal shrug and plonked himself down in the empty chair.

 

He knew he’d made the right move when Derek smiled at him – just a slight upward turn of his lips, but enough to indicate approval.

 

Stiles indicated the chess board between them and arched an eyebrow. “Did you seriously summon me here to play chess?”

 

“I assume you know how.”

 

“I do, yes, but –”

 

“I’m sick of playing against my ministers, or against nobility who are cautious of offending me. None of my children know the game and Lydia informs me that I am hardly a challenge.” One of Derek’s eyebrows twitched, his mouth pulling down slightly on one corner as he added dryly; “For all manner of reasons, I would rather not play against my uncle.”

 

Stiles didn’t bother trying to hide his smirk. He had a feeling that playing against Peter H’Aighl would be more like a slaughter than a game, and likely came with a good deal of taunting. “I wouldn’t want to play against him either,” he admitted. “I’d rather keep my pride and not see my ego as thoroughly trampled as I imagine it would be.”

 

“You know the game,” Derek stated easily, “and we already know you aren’t afraid of offending me. If you lose to me I’ll know it isn’t because you fear my temper.”

 

“Alright then,” Stiles nodded. He cracked his knuckles, scrutinising the board as he plotted his first move. “I should warn you though, your majesty – as a schoolboy I was master of the chess club and I have been known to make even professors cry.”

 

“Was that with your proficiency at chess,” Derek questioned, a small combative smirk on his lips, “or your inability to stay quiet during class?”

 

“Oh, King Derek has a sense of humour!” Stiles grinned. “I never would’ve guessed.”

 

“Make your first move,” Derek’s smirk grew, his pale eyes glinting with mischief, “before we grow old.”

 

“You made a mistake letting me take white,” Stiles said, already plucking his first pawn from the board and moving it two spaces, “because white is my colour and I am going to use it to beat you so thoroughly you won’t even be able to _look_ at white without remembering your crushing defeat.”

 

He didn’t catch Derek’s grin, but when he looked up again the other man’s eyes were sparkling in a suspiciously pleased way. Inexplicably, Stiles felt his cheeks go hot with a blush and quickly turned his attention back to the board to watch for Derek’s answering move.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The kiss was unexpected, doubly so because Stiles had never even imagined himself making a move. In some ways he still thought of himself as that gangly, awkward man from his youth – and in what world was that man good enough to make a move on someone like Derek? Putting aside the class difference, the fact that Derek was not only royalty but _king_ , there were still numerous factors that made even being attracted to him a bad idea.

 

Derek was married. Three times over, to three very lovely, beautiful women. Derek himself was beautiful, both in body and spirit, enough so that Stiles was sure that even if he’d been nobody important he could still have his pick of anyone he wanted. And while (unlike England) Mayak was openly accepting of same-gender romances, Derek himself had never actually shown any indication of being attracted to men.

 

Or women, come to think of it.

 

Meanwhile there was Stiles, who in his youth had widely been regarded as something of a human disaster. A stubborn, sometimes awkward man who constantly had to remind himself to keep his mouth shut and even then only sometimes succeeded.

 

He’d kissed a man before – had known since Oxford that his affections didn’t confine themselves solely to women – but the few times it had happened he’d always waited until he was absolutely _certain_ before he dared to do anything.

Stiles was far from certain now.

 

He’d pulled back away from the kiss as soon as he’d realised what he was doing, his face gone pale and his eyes wide as he waited for the inevitable rebuke. He didn’t think Derek would punish him over a kiss, pretty sure he wouldn’t even say anything about it after this, but he was also sure that he was about to be firmly and thoroughly told never to do that again.

 

Pale green-blue-grey eyes stared into his own, completely unreadable. Derek reached a hand towards his face and Stiles flinched, expecting a slap that never came. Instead warm, gentle fingertips brushed along his cheekbone and then slid down to his jaw, the pad of Derek’s thumb coming to rest on Stiles’ lower lip.

 

Slowly, as if he thought Stiles might turn tail and run at any moment, Derek leaned in and brushed their mouths together again. Sparks lit up in Stiles’ brain at the simple touch, his skin prickled with goose bumps. He couldn’t remember moving but suddenly his fingers were tangled in Derek’s hair and he could feel the other man’s bare chest pressed against him through his shirt and waistcoat.

 

Time passed in a blur, the surrounding world fallen away and replaced with nothing but sensation and sound. At the end of it all Stiles lay naked on top of the impossibly soft cotton sheets, looking up at the silk canopy of Derek’s lavish four poster bed.

 

He wasn’t sure what he should be feeling.

 

His body was relaxed, muscles melted into a pile of viscous liquid and his skin still faintly tingling with the memory of Derek’s touch. He felt tired but sated, flooded with endorphins from the best orgasm he’d had in a very (almost embarrassingly) long time. Beside him on the bed Derek stretched, his arms up above his head, toes pointed. He might be called the Lord of Wolves, Stiles mused, watching the ripple of muscles underneath suntanned skin, but right then he looked more like a particularly self-satisfied cat than any sort of canine.

 

“I can hear you thinking,” Derek murmured, turning towards him without even opening his eyes.

 

“I’m thinking,” Stiles admitted, rolling onto his side and propping himself up onto his elbow so he could admire his lover properly. “I’m wondering… I just… feel sort of surreal right now. Like, why me? Why would… someone like you… want someone like me?”

 

Derek’s eyes flickered open, his gaze soft and strangely wistful. “I ask myself the same question. Why would you want me?”

 

Stiles half sat up, not sure he’d heard correctly. “Are you joking?”

 

“I’m not. My position makes intimacy difficult. I come with strings attached, the weight of a country on my shoulders, you,” Derek stroked his fingers down Stiles’ arm to his wrist, “are unencumbered.”

“I’m a nobody schoolteacher from the back-end of London. I come with plenty of baggage too. Back home I’m…” Stiles shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. “You know why I was really surprised when you told me that Whittemore had recommended me? Sure I went to Oxford, I got in on my own merit and mixed with all the affluent up and comers of my generation, but they all hated me. I never fit in. I’m the son of a police detective, did you know that? I grew up in this tiny cottage on the outskirts of London with chickens in the back yard and they never let me forget it.”

 

“That doesn’t make you undesirable.”

 

“No, it just makes me…” _unworthy_ , Stiles finished in his own head. He sighed and lay back down properly.

 

“Go to sleep,” Derek advised, inching closer so that he could throw an arm across Stiles’ waist. “Think later. Just for now I want to have this moment.”

 

It wouldn’t occur to Stiles to think anything of that wording until much later.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Stiles woke up it took him a moment to place exactly where he was.  The mattress underneath him was as firm and comfortable as the one in his suite but there was a canopy of dark bronze silk overhead instead of the ivory stucco of the ceiling. The room smelled different too – sandalwood, hints of a masculine scent that wasn’t his own, almond oil and roses. Blinking properly awake, Stiles stretched out a hand and felt nothing but cold sheets beside him. He rolled over enough to look at the other side of the bed, a little disappointed to see that it was empty.

 

His clothes lay on a chair nearby, neatly folded into a little pile. His shoes had been placed on the floor beside the chair, perfectly positioned to be readily visible without being in the way.

 

Stiles wondered if Derek had done that, or if a servant had crept in while he was sleeping. He’d been dead to the world last night, sleeping deep and peaceful with the warmth of another body against his back.

 

He slithered off the bed and crossed the room to retrieve his clothes, noticing the small card that had been left on top of the pile only when he picked up his trousers and it fell to the floor.

 

_Morning meeting_ , the card said in Derek’s handwriting. _Ring for breakfast if you like, Marin will not speak a word of your presence here. I am free again at the usual time for our game._

 

The mantle clock displayed the time at eight-past-eight. A respectable enough time since Stiles didn’t start his morning class until nine. He didn’t even consider staying for breakfast in Derek’s rooms – it would feel too awkward, and he didn’t like the idea of Derek’s personal servant giving him one of her inscrutable looks, the kind that Stiles suspected meant she knew a great deal more than you really wanted her to (even if she’d never say so). Besides which, the room was too empty without Derek there.

 

He managed to make his way back to his own suite without being seen, which was no mean feat considering the number of people normally present in the Wolf Wing, and quickly changed his clothes. He had enough time to freshen up and tidy his hair before making his way to the classroom.

 

He told himself it didn’t matter if anyone knew. No-one would judge. There might be a little teasing, but it would have been the good-natured kind between friends and not meant maliciously. Still, there was a feeling of reluctance. What had happened between him and Derek last night – whatever might happen in the future – he wanted to keep it to himself for now.

 

Even so, he couldn’t keep a small smile from lighting on his face every time he thought about the night before.

 

In some ways Mayak was much better than England. 

 


	2. Post Script - A Brief Overview of Mayak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the history and politics I couldn't fit into the narrative without switching POVs and blowing it out to 100k of dry political drama.

**A Brief Overview of Mayak**

 

For the past hundred years the country has been ruled by the H’Aighl line. Cousins to the original ruling line of Caighl’yan, the H’Aighl line ascended to the throne when the last Caighl’yan king was deposed in a coup that successfully prevented a civil war amongst the ruling class.

 

Unfortunately the H’Aighls also inherited the country’s ongoing difficulties with their southernmost neighbours, the ‘empire’ of D’Argent, which escalated into war during the early rule of Queen Talia. For decades afterwards the war raged on and off at the southern border, turning cold when a plague of cholera decimated forces on both sides. Despite the loss of Queen Talia to the disease the D’Argentines faced greater losses that culminated in heavy financial loss and placed them at a severe disadvantage.

 

The war with D’Argent was confined largely to the southern border, allowing much of the country to remain untouched. With Mayak’s economic position remaining strong and the majority of its people unaffected by war’s ravages, Mayak was in prime position to conquer the lands to their south and end the war with violence.

 

Instead, the newly crowned King Derek H’Aighl used the D’Argents disadvantaged position to sue for peace, successfully brokering the first official peace accord and trade agreement between the two countries in over a hundred years. Since then both countries continue to uphold their treaties, though there remains no love lost between them.

 

For much of the country’s past Mayak has been fairly insular, trading only with their immediate neighbours. Companies that wished to buy Mayakan goods were previously forced to purchase through third parties. Under King Derek’s rule Mayak has begun opening itself to international trade, capitalising on the western world’s fascination with the exotic east.

 

Until recently Mayak’s prime export was iron ore, but the recent international demand for Mayakan fabrics and ornamentation has seen a dramatic increase in luxury trade and a massive influx of capital.

 

In terms of equality amongst the sexes, Mayak is known to be as unusual as most of its neighbours. Women may inherit land and titles, they may serve in the military, and they share many of the same rights as men. Arranged marriages are common, however if a woman is dissatisfied with the man her parents have chosen for her she may petition the local magistrate to void the contract.

 

Marriages amongst the upper classes are generally political in nature, with those who marry for love in the minority. It is common for upper-class men to have several wives, or to have one wife and several live-in mistresses. Similarly, it is rare, though not unheard of, for widows or heiresses to acquire multiple husbands – though this is done with a different marriage contract that bars any of her husbands from inheriting her wealth or titles.

 

Inherited titles pass to the eldest child regardless of gender.

As a side note – in Mayak homosexuality is considered perfectly normal amongst consenting adults. There is a specific marriage contract available for same-sex pairings with an allowance to give adopted or otherwise illegitimate children inheritance rights. Unfortunately these marriages are not recognised as legal anywhere except Mayak.

 

 

**The Most Recent History of the House of H’Aighl**

 

King Derek H’Aighl is the son of the late Queen Talia H’Aighl, who ruled for twenty years previous to Derek’s ascension to the throne.

 

Interestingly, Derek was not the heir to the throne and as a child was expected to grow up and take over his uncle’s position as General and Advisor to the Queen. This changed during the year 1855, when an outbreak of cholera ravaged the border between Mayak and D’Argent. Queen Talia and her eldest daughter were visiting the country near the border and were both stricken by the disease, alongside a number of Mayakan and D’Argentine citizens including several members of the D’Argentine royal family employed in positions in their military.

 

Derek H’Aighl was officially crowned in December of 1855. Soon after in 1856 he married his first wife Julia Baccari, eldest daughter of Duke Baccari, honouring a contract arranged by their parents before the Queen’s death.

 

He married his second wife Braeden, the second daughter of Valkyr’s youngest prince, in the year of 1857 as part of an agreement with the neighbouring country of Valkyr. And his third wife Lydia, the daughter of the Minister of Finance, two years later.

 

As yet there have been no heirs. Currently the heir to the Mayakan throne is Derek’s uncle, General Peter H’Aighl, followed by Derek’s cousin Malia H’Aighl.

 

Despite his youth, Derek is known as a fair and competent ruler.  

 

 **Dictionary and Pronunciation of Mayakan terms** ;

 

 **h’volk –** _phonetic_ _h-VOL-k_ – a term loosely translated to ‘wolf child’, but with a meaning more closely related to ‘wolf pack’.

 **h’volkan dhar –** _h-VOLK-in DAR_ – plural of h’volk, with the additional word for ‘den’ or ‘dwelling’. In reference to a specific palace wing occupied by the King’s wives and companions.

 **k’vassi –** _KUH-vass-ee_ – A crude term for brothel or pleasure-house, sometimes used in reference to a rich man’s mistresses. A k’vassan is a prostitute.

 **Mayak –** _Mah-YAK_ – Translates directly to ‘Light’ or ‘Beacon’.

 **Mayakan –** _Mah-yik-AHN_ – Used in reference to anything belonging to the country of Mayak, including its language and people.

 

 


End file.
